Vasily terkin in films. "Tvardovsky's poem" Vasily Terkin "folk poem Genre features of the work
Alexander Tvardovsky
Vasily Turkin
In the war, in the marching dust,
In the summer heat and in the cold,
There is no better simple, natural -
From the well, from the pond,
From the water pipe
From the hoof track
From the river, whatever
From the stream, from under the ice, -
Better no cold water
Only water was used - water.
In war, in a harsh life,
In a difficult fighting life,
In the snow, under a coniferous roof,
In the field parking lot, -
There is no better simple, healthy,
Good front-line food.
It is only important that the cook
There would be a cook - a guy of your own;
To be listed for a reason,
So that sometimes I do not sleep at night, -
If only it was with a fat
Yes, it would be with fervor, with heat -
Pick up, get hotter;
To go to any fight
Feeling the strength in the shoulders
Feeling cheerfulness.
It's not just cabbage soup.
You can live without food for a day,
More is possible, but sometimes
In a one minute war
Do not live without a joke,
The most unwise jokes.
Do not live like without a makhorka,
From bombing to another
Without a good saying
Or some sayings, -
Without you, Vasily Turkin,
Vasya Tyorkin is my hero,
And more than anything else
Don't live for sure -
Without which? Without the truth of existence,
Truth, beating straight into the soul,
Yes, it would have been thicker
No matter how bitter it is.
What else? .. And that's all, perhaps.
In a word, a book about a fighter
Without beginning, without end.
Why is it so - without a beginning?
Because the deadline is not enough
Start it over again.
Why endlessly?
I just feel sorry for the fellow.
From the first days of the bitter year,
In the difficult hour of the native land
Not jokingly, Vasily Turkin,
We made friends with you,
I have no right to forget
Than your glory owes
How and where did you help me.
Business time, hour of fun
Dorog Turkin in the war.
How can I suddenly leave you?
The old friendship is correct.
In a word, a book from the middle
And let's start. And there it will go.
On a halt
- Smart, to be sure,
There was the same old man
What did the soup come up with
On wheels straight.
Soup first. Secondly,
Porridge is normally strong.
No, old man he was an old man
Sensitive - that's for sure.
Hey, throw another one
Such a spoon
I am the second, brother, war
I am at war forever.
Rate, add a little.
The cook looked askance:
"Wow eater -
This guy is new. "
He puts an extra spoon,
Utterly speaks:
- You should, you know, in the navy
With your appetite.
He: - Thank you. I just
Haven't been to the Navy.
I'd rather be like you
Chef in the infantry. -
And, sitting under a pine tree,
Eating porridge, stooping.
"Mine?" - fighters among themselves, -
"Mine!" - exchanged glances.
And already, having warmed up, I slept
Tired regiment.
In the first platoon, sleep was gone,
Contrary to the charter.
Leaning against the trunk of a pine tree,
Not sparing the makhorka,
In a war about a war
The conversation was conducted by Turkin.
- Is Sabantuy some kind of holiday?
Or what is there - sabantuy?
The guy fell silent for a minute
To clear the mouthpiece
As if subtly to someone
Winked: hold on, buddy ...
- Here you came out early,
He looked - into your sweat and trembling;
A rod of a thousand German tanks ...
- Thousands of tanks? Well, brother, you're lying.
- Why should I lie, buddy?
Judge - what is the calculation?
- But why immediately - a thousand?
- Good. Let it be five hundred,
- Well, five hundred. Tell me the honor
Do not frighten like old women.
- Okay. That there are three hundred, two hundred -
Meet one at least ...
- Well, the slogan in the newspaper is accurate:
Do not run into the bushes and bread.
Tank - it looks very formidable,
But in reality he is deaf and blind.
“That’s blind.” You lie in a ditch
And in my heart it is:
Suddenly it crushes blindly, -
After all, he does not see a damn thing.
Repeat Agree again:
What you do not know - do not interpret.
Sabantuy is just one word -
Sabantuy! .. But Sabantuy
Can hit in the head
Or, simply, in the head.
We had one guy ...
Give me some tobacco.
Balaguru looks in the mouth,
They catch the word greedily.
It's good when someone lies
Fun and foldable.
Aside the forest, deaf,
In rough weather,
Well, as there is such
Guy on a hike.
And hesitantly with him
They ask: - Come on, for the night
Tell me more
Vasily Ivanovich ...
The night is deaf, a land of cheese.
A little fire smokes.
- No, guys, it's time to sleep,
Start to creep.
Face down on the sleeve
On a warm hillock
Between fellow fighters
Vasily Turkin lay down.
The overcoat is heavy, wet,
The rain worked kindly.
The roof is the sky, the hut is the spruce,
The roots are pressed under the ribs.
But it is not visible that he
I was discouraged by this
So that he does not sleep in a dream
Somewhere in the world.
Here he pulled up the floors,
Covering your back
He remembered someone's mother-in-law,
Stove and feather bed.
And nestled damp to the ground,
Defeated by languor
And he lies, my hero,
He sleeps like at home.
Asleep - at least hungry, at least full,
At least one, at least in a heap.
Sleep for the same lack of sleep,
Learned to sleep in reserve.
And the hero barely dreams
Every night a heavy dream:
As from the western border
He retreated to the east;
How did he go, Vasya Tyorkin,
From the stock private,
In a salted tunic
Hundreds of miles of native land.
How big the earth is
Greatest land.
And she would have been a stranger
Someone else's, otherwise - his own.
Asleep, forgetting about the difficult summer.
Sleep, care, do not rebel.
Maybe tomorrow at dawn
There will be a new Sabantuy.
The fighters are asleep, as they fell asleep,
Under a pine tree vpo? Kat,
Sentinels on posts
Get wet lonely.
Zgi is not visible. Night is around.
And the fighter will feel sad.
Just remember something suddenly,
He will remember and grin.
And as if the dream was gone
The laughter faded into a yawn.
- It's good that he hit,
Turkin, to our company.
Turkin - who is he?
Let's be honest:
Just a guy by himself
He's ordinary.
However, the guy wherever.
A guy like that
In every company there is always
And in every platoon.
And so that they know what is strong
Let's be honest:
Endowed with beauty
He was not excellent
Not high, not that small,
But a hero is a hero.
He fought in Karelian -
Across the river Sestroy.
And we don't know why -
They did not ask, -
Why then did he
They didn't give me a medal.
Let's turn from this topic,
Let's say for order:
Maybe on the bounty list
There was a typo.
Don't look at what's on your chest
And look what lies ahead!
In service since June, in battle since July,
Turkin is at war again.
- Bomb or bullet visible
Not found yet for me.
Was hit by a shrapnel in battle,
Healed - and so much sense.
Three times I was surrounded
Three times - here it is! - went out.
And although it was restless -
Remained unharmed
Under oblique, three-layer fire,
Under hinged and straight.
And more than once in the usual way,
By the roads, in the dust of the columns,
I was scattered in part,
And partially destroyed ...
But, however,
The warrior is alive
To the kitchen - from the place, from the place - into the battle.
Smokes, eats and drinks with gusto
Any position.
No matter how difficult, no matter how bad -
Don't give up, look ahead
Before the fight
- I will report at least briefly,
How we had to deal with the war
Make your way from the rear to the front
On the other side, the German side.
As with German, with that Zaretsky
The parties are said to be
Following the Soviet power,
Our brother followed the front.
Our brother was walking, thin, hungry,
Lost touch and part,
I walked as a port and platoon,
And a free company
And one, like a finger, sometimes.
I walked by the field, by the forest edge,
Avoiding prying eyes
I approached the village in the dark,
And served him as a knapsack
Combat gas mask.
He walked, gray, bearded,
And clinging to the threshold
I went into any house,
As if to blame for something
Before her. And what could he!
And by that bitter habit,
As honor ordered on the way,
He asked for some water first,
And then he asked for food.
Aunt - where can she refuse?
At least some, but still you are yours,
Won't tell you anything
It will only sob over you
He only says, seeing off:
- God forbid you to return ...
It was a great sadness
How we wandered east.
They walked thin, walked barefoot
To unknown lands.
What is where she is, Russia,
On what line is it!
They walked, however. I was walking too ...
I am dear hateful
Not one made his way.
There were ten of us,
We also had a commander.
Of the fighters. A smart man,
I knew this area around.
Well I, as a more ideological,
There was, as it were, a political instructor.
The fighters were following us,
Leaving the captive land.
I am one political talk
I repeated:
- Do not be upset.
We will not overreach, so we will break through,
Let us be alive - we will not die.
The time will come, we will return back,
What we gave - we will return everything.
They would ask me myself
I knew exactly how much
What is where she is, Russia,
On what line is it?
The commander walked gloomily,
Also, gradually I look
Something he kept thinking, thinking ...
“Stop thinking,” I say.
I tell him sincerely.
He responds and suddenly says:
- On the way, my village.
How do you think, political instructor?
The clear falcon has set off,
I gave up thinking and started singing.
Goes far ahead
Took off - not to keep up.
And we got there late,
And backsides, hemp,
Cautious and serious
He took everyone to his home.
This is how it was with our brother,
That got home from the war:
Come to your home,
Making our way along the wall.
Know ahead that there is little use
From the birthplace
That the war has stepped here too,
Passed ahead of you
What do you want with your visit
Don't make your wife happy:
I ran in, slept in snatches,
Catch up with the war again ...
Here the owner sat down, took off his shoes,
Right hand - on the table,
As if he returned from the mill,
I came from the field for supper.
As if so, but everything is different ...
- Well, wife, heat the stove,
All contentment hot
Provide me with a team.
The children are asleep, the wife is busy,
On your bitter, sad holiday,
No matter how small this night,
And she is not the only one.
With quick hands
Fries, cooks quickly,
Towels with roosters
Suits, as for guests;
Watered, fed,
I laid it to rest
Yes, with such dear care,
With such kind caress,
As if we are sometimes
Wrapped up in this house
As if we were heroes
And not small, moreover.
The master himself, the senior warrior,
I was sitting among the guests
I was hardly happy when
So my mistress.
It is unlikely that she has all the grip
Ever was
As with this brief meeting,
So dear and so sweet.
And he was sick, honest guy,
I understood, the father of the family,
Who is in captivity unknown
He left his wife with children ...
After finishing fees, conversations,
The soldiers settled down in the house.
The owner lay down. But not soon
She went up to him.
Quietly clinking dishes
Sewing something with fire.
And the owner is waiting from there,
I'm embarrassed.
All the comrades fell asleep
And I am not oppressed to sleep.
Give me better on guard
I'll lay my bed on the porch.
He took an overcoat, yes, as the saying goes,
Made myself a bed
What's underneath, and at the head,
And upstairs - and that's all - the overcoat.
Eh, cloth, breech,
Military overcoat, -
Burned by the fire in the forest,
Excellent overcoat.
Famous, punched
In battle with the fire of the enemy
Sewn up with my own hand, -
Who is not dear!
Will you fall as if knocked down
Our brother is hurt
On that worn-out overcoat
They will take you to the sanitary battalion.
And they kill - so the body is dead
Yours with others in a row
With that shabby overcoat
Will hide - sleep, soldier!
Sleep, soldier, in a short life
Not on the road, not at home
Didn't have to sleep well
Not with my wife, not one ...
The owner went out onto the porch.
I won't forget that night.
- What are you doing?
- And I am a firewood
Chop for the hostess.
Here is a man who cannot sleep
As if at home - in a war.
I walked to the lumberjack
Cuts brushwood in the moonlight.
Bale and bale. Cuts to light.
The night is short for a soldier.
To know, he regrets his wife, loves,
He doesn't know how to help.
Cuts, cuts. At dawn
A fighter leaves the house.
And children woke up under the light
They'll see - the father has come.
They'll see - the fighters are strangers,
Different guns, belts.
And guys, how big
As if they understood.
And the guys began to cry.
And it was here to think:
Maybe today in this hut
The Germans will enter with guns ...
And to this day that child's cry
In the early hour of a dashing day
With that German, with that Zaretsky
The parties are calling me.
I wouldn't dream for the glory
Before the battle morning,
I would like to go to the right bank,
Having passed the battle, enter alive.
And I will say without hiding
Bring me there to go,
I would like to see that mistress
Knock on the way.
Ask for water to drink -
Not to sit down at the table,
And then to bow down
A kind woman is simple.
Whether he will ask about the owner, -
"I suppose - alive and well."
Take an ax, throw off your overcoat,
Chop wood for the mistress.
Because - the master is the master
He didn't tell us anything.
Maybe now the earth is soaring
For which I stood ...
However, what is there to think, brothers,
We must hurry to beat the German.
That's all that Turkin in brief
I have to report to you.
Crossing
Ferry, ferry!
Left bank, right bank,
The snow is rough, the edge of the ice ...
To whom is memory, to whom glory,
To whom is dark water, -
Not a sign, not a trace.
At night, the first from the column,
Breaking off the ice at the edge,
He sank onto the pontoons.
First platoon.
Sank down, pushed off
And went. The second one is behind him.
Prepared, ducked
The third follows the second.
Like rafts, go the pontoons,
Rumbled one, the other
Bass, iron tone,
Like a roof underfoot.
And the fighters are sailing somewhere,
Hiding bayonets in the shade.
And absolutely my own guys
Immediately - as if they were not,
Seemingly different at once
On our own, on those guys:
Somehow everything is more friendly and stricter,
Somehow everything is dearer to you
And dearer than an hour ago.
But the guys are already coming,
Fighters live in war
Like sometime in the twentieth
Their comrades are fathers.
That path is harsh
That two hundred years ago
Passed with a flintlock rifle
Russian worker-soldier.
Past their whirling temples,
Near their boyish eyes
Death in battle whistled often
And is it a blowjob this time?
Lay down, row, sweat,
Pole controlled.
And the water roars to the right -
Under the blown up bridge.
Already in the middle
They are carried and circled ...
And the water roars in the gorge
Dead ice crumbles into pieces,
Between the bent beams of the truss
Beats in foam and dust ...
And the first platoon, probably,
Reaches the sixth of the earth.
The duct rustles behind
And all around - someone else's night.
And already he is so far away
No matter what to shout or help.
And the jagged one turns black there,
Beyond the cold line
Unapproachable, unprofitable
Forest over black water.
Ferry, ferry!
The right bank is like a wall ...
It was like this: from the deep darkness,
Fiery throwing up a blade,
Searchlight beam duct
Crossed obliquely.
And put the water in a pillar
Suddenly a shell. Pontoons - in a row.
There were a lot of people there -
Our haircut guys ...
And I saw for the first time
It will not be forgotten:
People are warm, lively
We went to the bottom, to the bottom, to the bottom ...
Under the fire of confusion -
Where are yours, where is who, where is the connection?
Only soon it became quiet, -
The crossing fell through.
And so far it is not known
Who is there timid, who is the hero,
Who is the wonderful guy there,
And he probably was like that.
Ferry, ferry ...
Darkness, cold. Night is like a year.
But grabbed the right bank,
The first platoon remained there.
And the guys are silent about him
In a fighting home circle,
As if to blame for something
Who is on the left bank.
Seeing no end to the night's lodging.
During the night she took up
Halved with ice and snow
Mixed mud.
And tired from the hike,
Whatever it is, she is alive,
The infantry is dozing, crouching,
Hands in my sleeves.
The infantry is dozing, crouching,
And in the forest, in the deaf night
Smells like boots, sweat,
Frozen needles and terry.
This shore breathes lightly
Together with those on that
Under the cliff they are waiting for the dawn
They warm the earth with their belly, -
Waiting for dawn, waiting for help
They don't want to lose heart.
The night is passing, there is no road
Neither forward nor back ...
Or maybe there since midnight
Pours snow in their eyes,
And for a long time
It does not melt in their eye sockets
And the pollen lies on the faces -
The dead don't care.
Colds, they don't hear the cold
Death after death is not scary
Even though he writes ration to them
First company foreman,
The foreman writes rations to them,
And by mail field
Don't go faster, don't go quieter
Old letters home
What else guys themselves
At a halt under fire
Somewhere in the forest they wrote
On each other's backs ...
From Ryazan, from Kazan,
From Siberia, from Moscow -
The soldiers are sleeping.
They said theirs
And they are forever right.
And hard as a stone, a pile,
Where their tracks are frozen ...
Maybe so, or maybe a miracle?
At least some sign from there,
And trouble would be for half the trouble.
Debts of the night, hard dawns
In November - gray-haired by winter.
Two fighters are on patrol
Over cold water.
Either dream, or hesitate,
It seemed that I knew
Either frost on the eyelashes
Is there really something?
They see - a small dot
She appeared in the distance:
Either a lump, or a barrel
Floating down the river?
- No, not a chock and not a barrel -
It's just a matter of the eye.
- Isn't it a loner swimmer?
- You're kidding, brother. The water is not right!
- Yes, water ... It's scary to think.
Even the fish are cold.
- Isn't it one of our yesterday's
Which one rose from the bottom? ..
Both calmed down at once.
And one fighter said:
- No, he would have swum out in an overcoat,
Full gear, dead man.
Both were chilled out,
Whatever it was - for the first time.
A sergeant came up with binoculars.
Looked closely: no, alive.
- No, alive. Without a gymnast.
- Not Fritz? Is it not to our rear?
- No. Or maybe it's Turkin? -
Someone joked timidly.
- Stop, guys, do not meddle,
There is no point in lowering the pontoon.
- May I try?
- What to try!
- Brothers, - he!
And, near the banks of the crust
I broke off the ice,
He is like him, Vasily Tyorkin,
Got up alive, - got by swimming.
Smooth, naked, as from a bath,
He got up, staggering heavily.
Neither teeth nor lips
Doesn't work - it's reduced.
Picked up, tied up,
They gave them boots from their feet.
Threatened, ordered -
You can, if not, but run.
Under the mountain, in the headquarters hut,
Guy immediately on the bed
Put to dry
They began to rub with alcohol.
Rubbed, rubbed ...
Suddenly he says, as in a dream:
- Doctor, doctor, is it possible
Warm me up from the inside
So as not to spend everything on the skin?
They gave a pile - began to live,
Raised up on the bed:
- Allow me to report ...
Platoon on the right bank
Alive and healthy in spite of the enemy!
The lieutenant is only asking
Throw the fire there.
And already following the fire
Let's get up, stretch our legs.
What is there, we will fix it,
We will provide the crossing ...
Reported in the form, as if
Swim back to him immediately.
- Well done! The colonel said.
Well done! Thank you brother.
And with a smirk
Then the fighter says:
- And still can you not have a stack,
Because how well done?
The colonel looked sternly,
He looked sideways at the fighter.
- Well done, but there will be a lot -
Two at once.
- So there are two ends ...
Ferry, ferry!
The cannons are firing in the pitch darkness.
The fight is holy and right.
Mortal combat is not for the glory
For life on earth.
- Allow me to report
Short and simple:
I'm a big hunter to live
Up to ninety years old.
And the war - forget about everything
And she has no right to blame.
I was going on a long journey
The order was given: "Set aside!"
The year has struck, the turn has come
Today we are in charge
For Russia, for the people
And for everything in the world.
From Ivan to Thomas,
Dead or alive
All of us together are us
That people, Russia.
And since this is us,
I'll tell you, brothers,
We are out of this mess
Nowhere to go.
Your calculation is not great
Think alone.
The bomb is a fool. Will get
Foolishly straight to the point.
Forget yourself in war
Remember the honor, however,
Strive to the point - chest to chest,
A fight means a fight.
Well, what's the point to judge, -
Everything is clear to the point.
It is necessary, brothers, to beat the German,
Give no respite.
Once the war - forget about everything
And I have no right to blame,
I was going on a long journey
The order was given: "Set aside!"
How many lived - at the end,
Free from hassle.
And then you are the fighter
That is good for battle.
And you will go to any fire
You will complete the task.
And you look - still alive
You will be yourself in the bargain.
And the hour of death will overtake
So the number is out.
To rhyme something about us
They will write after us.
Let them lie at least a hundred times,
We are ready for that
If only children, they say,
We would be healthy ...
Turkin is wounded
To graves, ditches, ditches,
On tangles of rusty thorns,
On the fields, the hills - full of holes,
Of the mutilated land
On a gnarled swamp forest,
Snow fell on the bushes.
And thick white snow
The wind covered the field.
Blizzard in burnt pipes
Buzzed along the roads.
And in the impassable snows
These peaceful lands
In this memorable winter
They smelled of cannon smoke
Not the human haze of housing.
And in the forests, on the frozen heap,
Through dugouts without lights,
Near tanks and guns
And horses with a cold
People met in the war
Long count of nights and days.
The poem "Vasily Turkin" Tvardovsky wrote in 1941-1945. She became one of the most famous works about the Patriotic War in Russian literature. In the poem, the author reveals the theme of the war, mentioning the events of 1941-1942: the Battle of the Volga, the crossing of the Dnieper, the capture of Berlin. The connecting motive of the work is the motive of the road along which the soldiers go to the goal, to victory.
The work consists of 30 chapters and is written mainly by a four-foot chorea - a size typical for Russian folk ditties.
main characters
Vasily Ivanovich Tyorkin- the main character of the poem, previously fought "in Karelian", where he was wounded. A joker and a joker, he loves his homeland and is ready to fight for it to the end.
From the author
On a halt
Balagur Vasya Tyorkin gets into the first platoon of infantry and entertains other soldiers with his stories. Turkin is “just a guy”, “ordinary”, there are such people in every company and in every platoon.
Before the fight
Turkin recalls how ten soldiers walked "behind the front." Passing through the commander's village, they went to his house. The wife fed the fighters. On the way back, Turkin decided to go to her to bow.
Crossing
Winter, night. Soldiers on pontoons (floating bridges) crossed the river. Shelling began, many soldiers were killed. At dawn, Turkin sailed to the other, left bank. Barely warmed up with alcohol, he reported that on the right bank they were asking "to throw a light."
"The battle is coming holy and right<…>for the sake of life on earth. "
About war
Turkin is wounded
Turkin is establishing communication in the rifle company. Vasily sneaks into the cellar discovered on the road, waiting for the enemy. A German officer appears and shoots at Tyorkin, wounds the fighter in the right shoulder.
Only a day later, the tankers arrived and took the wounded Tyorkin.
About the award
Turkin argues that he is not proud: why does he need an order - he agrees to a medal too. Vasily dreams of coming home with an award on vacation. Now there, in the Smolensk Territory, is a "terrible battle", "bloody".
Harmonic
Tyorkin was catching up with "his own infantry regiment, his first company." The fighter was picked up by a truck. On the way, they stopped, letting the column pass. The tankers gave Turkin the accordion of the deceased comrade. The music made everyone "suddenly feel warmer," the soldiers began to order songs and dance.
Two soldiers
The hut of an old soldier and an old woman. Tyorkin, going to spend the night with them, repairs the wall clock. The old woman treats the soldier with eggs and bacon. The old man asked Turkin if they would beat the Germans. Leaving, the fighter replied: "Let's beat, father ...".
About loss
The fighter who lost his family was annoyed by the loss of the pouch. Tyorkin gave his friend his shabby pouch, saying that in a war it is not scary to lose anything, but Russia, "the old mother, we cannot lose in any way."
Duel
Turkin fought hand-to-hand with the German. Vasily hit the enemy with an unloaded grenade. He fell. Turkin brought the German "language" to the battalion.
From the author
"Who shot?"
"Front. War". Shelling. One of the soldiers fires a rifle at an enemy plane. The plane crashes. The hero who shot down the plane turned out to be Tyorkin (for this he was soon awarded).
About the hero
In the hospital, Tyorkin meets a hero-boy from near Tambov, who talks about his homeland. Terkin felt hurt for his native land - Smolensk, she seemed to him an "orphan".
General
The general presents Turkin with an award, calling the fighter "eagle", "hero". He promised that he would go with Vasily to the Smolensk region, where the war is now going on. They hugged like a son with a father.
About myself
Swamp fight
There was an unknown battle in the swamp for the "settlement of Borki". The wet infantry curses the swamp. Turkin encourages them that everything is still good, because they are in their company, they have weapons. The revived fighters took Borki.
About love
Turkin's rest
Tyorkin in the rest house. The fighter is unaccustomed to such conditions. Having stayed on vacation for a very short time, Turkin could not stand it and returned to the front.
On the offensive
The battle is in full swing. The platoon is advancing. The lieutenant ran ahead of the platoon and was killed. Turkin led the fighters into the attack, was seriously wounded.
Death and Warrior
Death bent over the wounded Terkin lying in the snow - calling the fighter with him. But Vasily refuses - he still wants to defeat the Germans, to return home. Terkin was picked up by soldiers from the sanitary battalion. Death retreated.
Turkin writes
Turkin writes from the ward that he survived and is "preoccupied" with only one thing: to return to his native part.
Turkin-Turkin
Turkin returned to the company. Among the soldiers there is a "double" of Tyorkin, the same joker - Ivan Tyorkin. The namesakes got into an argument, figuring out which of them was the "real" one. The foreman judged them:
"According to the charter of each company
Turkin will be given his own. "
From the author
Grandfather and woman
House of grandfather and grandmother, where Tyorkin repaired watches, under the Germans. The watch is taken by a German soldier.
The old man and his wife, hiding, "settled" in the pit. Suddenly, Russian scouts came. Among them is Vasily Turkin. The old woman received Vasily "like a son." Turkin promised to bring them "two new" watches from Berlin.
On the Dnieper
The front advanced towards the Dnieper. Tyorkin, having learned that Smolensk was liberated by others, and not by him, felt guilty before his homeland.
About an orphan soldier
An orphan soldier lost his wife and son. Passing by his native village Krasny Most, he found only "wilderness, weeds", but even in grief he continued to fight for his homeland.
"Let's remember, brothers, during the conversation
About an orphan soldier ... ".
On the road to Berlin
Road to Berlin. Among the strangers, the soldiers heard their native language - it was "the village toiler-mother." Turkin made sure that the woman was given things, a horse and sent home.
In the bath
"In the depths of Germany" soldiers wash in a bath. One of them, talkative, takes off his clothes - his body is scarred, and his tunic is all in orders and medals. The soldiers say: "It's all the same that Tyorkin."
From the author
The war is over, the narrator says goodbye to Terkin. The author devotes his "favorite work" to all the fallen and friends of the war period.
Conclusion
In the poem "Vasily Turkin" AT Tvardovsky conveys the chronicle of the life of ordinary soldiers in the war, talks about their little joys, about their losses and grief. The central image of Vasily Tyorkin is a collective image of a Russian fighter who is ready, regardless of circumstances, to always move forward, fighting for his native land. Many quotes from the poem have become catchwords.
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"What freedom, what wonderful daring, what accuracy, precision in everything and what an extraordinary folk soldier's language - not a bitch, not a hitch, not a single false word!" - wrote IA Bunin about the poem "Vasily Terkin" by Alexander Tvardovsky - an outstanding Russian poet with a dramatic destiny. The poem "Vasily Terkin" became one of the heights of the poet's work, in which the soul of the people came to life in full. The book also includes the poems "The Country of Ant" ("the high culture of verse" already in this poem was noted by B. Pasternak and N. Aseev), "House by the Road", "Beyond the Distance - Dal", "Terkin in the Next World", " By Right of Remembrance ”(published only in 1987), which describes the tragic fate of Tvardovsky's father, a dispossessed and exiled peasant blacksmith; landscape lyrics, war poems and poems of recent years, stories and essays.
A series: List of school literature 7-8 grade
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company liters.
Twardowski string
The last memory of him: sitting, terribly emaciated, near a large country window ...
Not long before that, in February 1970, the many years of rough pressure from all kinds of "governing bodies" - the Central Committee of the CPSU, Glavlit (or, to put it simply - censorship), the secretariat of the Writers' Union - forced Alexander Tvardovsky to leave the magazine "Novy Mir", of which he was more ten years and which during this time has gained immense popularity in our country and even abroad.
In the last century, having experienced the loss of his favorite brainchild, the journal Otechestvennye zapiski, closed by the government, Saltykov-Shchedrin wrote sadly that from now on he “lost the use of language”. But what was a metaphor, a hyperbole for the great satirist, became a reality for Tvardovsky. Having lost the magazine, unable to publish his last poem "By the Right of Memory", he became terminally ill and almost lost his speech.
He was surrounded by relatives, friends visited, and yet for long hours he was left alone with leafless trees, withered grass looking out the window in late autumn, until the first blizzards rattled against the glass. (And did not the lines from the tragic chapter of Vasily Terkin sounded in memory on the last December night: “Death leaned towards the head: - Well, soldier, come with me”?)
All life, probably, passed in those days before Tvardovsky's eyes, and he could say about himself in the words of his beloved hero:
I bent such a hook,
I went so far
And I've seen such agony
And I knew such sadness ...
"Vasily Terkin"... Oh, how simple everything seemed to a teenager who grew up in the Smolensk region, as he would write later: "in the boondocks, shaken by the world miracle of new days." Having become a member of the Komsomol, he owed a lot to his father, a rural blacksmith, for the first inclinations of love for books and reading;
Among the poems of the "poet-selkor", as the Smolensk newspapers called their young employee, there were such as "Father the Rich", and in one of his first poems the "negative" character was ... the blacksmith Gordeich!
Many years will pass before the father's fate appears before Tvardovsky in all its complexity. For many years he nurtured the idea of a novel about his father, which, unfortunately, was never carried out. He came up with the name - "Pan". This is how Trifon Gordeevich was nicknamed by fellow countrymen for the fact that in every possible way, very naively and shortsightedly, he emphasized his specialness, independence, different from the usual rural way of life.
But already in the poem "Beyond the Far - Distance" will be captured both the real picture of the "meager earnings" of the working day of the mythical "rich man", and the fugitive portraits of his poor "clients". And in the essay "Notes from the Angara", talking about a native from Smolensk region he met, Tvardovsky wrote that, looking at him, "I involuntarily remembered the back of the head of his late father, so familiar to the last wrinkle and dash ...". For all the laconicism of this mention, a strong spiritual movement is palpable behind him, a stirring memory of the man with whom such an implacable war was waged in his youth.
In the first versts of life, the father's image became the embodiment of that everyday life and way of life, from which the aspiring poet sought to push off, as they push off from the coast, setting off on a voyage. This conflict ended with the departure of the young man from home and the beginning of an independent existence as a newspaperman and writer.
We were ready for the campaign.
What could be easier:
Don't lie
Don't be cowardly
Be faithful to the people
To love the mother land,
So that for her into fire and water,
Now and then give your life.
This is how Tvardovsky recalled in his last poem the old frame of mind - his own and that of his peers. And, wise in all that he had experienced, he added:
What's easier!
Let's leave it intact
This is the covenant of the early days.
Only from ourselves now we will add:
Which is easier - yes.
But which is more difficult?
"Complexity" made itself felt immediately. At the time of the beginning of collectivization, among millions of others, the "lord" family, exiled to the North, also suffered unjustly. Almost thirty years later, in 1957, sketching out the plan for a play about dispossession, Tvardovsky recalled the words spoken to him at that time by the secretary of the Smolensk regional party committee: "There are times when you have to choose between dad and mom and the revolution." In the same sketches, the dilemma faced by the "younger brother" is captured, in which the author himself is guessed: "He must break up with his family, abandon it, curse it - then, perhaps, he will still remain" on this shore ", and no - like it or not, you will be an "enemy", a fist, who will never, in any way, beg forgiveness from the Soviet regime. "
What happened left in the poet's soul a most difficult, non-healing wound and at the same time marked the beginning of a long, painful, contradictory sobering up from former naive illusions. And in a completely different way I recalled life on my father's farm in the poem "Brothers", ending with piercing lines:
What are you, brother?
How are you brother?
Where are you, brother?
On which Belomorsky canal? ..
Tvardovsky's poem "The Country of Ant" was noticeably different in tone from the literature of that time with its simplified and embellished depiction of collectivization. In the description of the wanderings of Nikita Morgunk, who "abandoned ... his family and home", not wanting to join the collective farm (as did the poet's father), in his disturbing thoughts and numerous road meetings, clear echoes of the tragic events of those years are heard. Expressive, for example, is the tale heard by Morgunk about his grandfather and a woman who “lived for a century in their hut” until the “unprecedentedly high” spring water “raised ... the hut” and, “like a boat, carried it” to a completely new place: “Here and stop. " The author himself later appreciated the drama of this poem, which reached special strength in rough versions:
Houses are rotting, yards are rotting,
Jackdaws make nests through the pipes,
Zaros master's trace.
Who escaped himself, who was taken away,
As they say, to the ends of the earth,
Where there is no land.
Nevertheless, the hero of the poem in the end abandoned the search for the legendary country of "sole" peasant happiness, where "no, not my God, commune, collective farm", and resigned himself to the need to join an artel. Many of the poems included in the collections "The Road", "Rural Chronicle" and "Zagorie" eloquently testify to how diligently Tvardovsky sought the bright sides of the then village life, proceeding from the consciousness that it was so necessary. One must “have the courage to see the positive,” he later wrote bitterly.
On a road that is mirror-shining
Why am I passing the porch ...
These lines, conceived as an odic glorification of a new life, turned, however, into a caustic and bitter assessment of what was happening then to the poet himself. Not long ago, declared in the Smolensk press as a "kulak echo" and even as a "class enemy", after the "Country of Ant", which critics considered the glorification of collectivization, he found himself in favor with the authorities: he was admitted to the party, was awarded the Order of Lenin among famous writers and even received the Stalin Prize.
It is fortunate that the "mirror-like shining road" did not blind Tvardovsky. He understood that in the works praised by critics, "rides by" a lot that is in real life. At the end of the thirties, in a letter to a relative who also took up the pen, Alexander Trifonovich not so much lectured the addressee as reflected on his own: simplifies and "rounds out" the most complex phenomena of life ... be brave, proceed not from the idea of what is supposedly required, but from your self-inner conviction that this is what you are writing about, and not otherwise, that you know for sure that you want it that way. " And who became a close friend S. Ya. Marshak confessed: "... for a long time I want to write differently, but still can not ..."
However, he nevertheless tried to write "differently" - in "Brothers", and in the elegiac pre-war "Trip to Zagorye", and in the poem "Mother" full of hidden pain (Maria Mitrofanovna was still in exile with her family):
And the first noise of the foliage is still incomplete,
And the trace is green in the grainy dew,
And the lonely knock of a valka on the river,
And the sad smell of young hay
And just the sky, blue sky -
I am reminded of you every time.
The true birth of Tvardovsky as a great Russian poet took place during the tragic period of national history - during the protracted and bloody winter campaign in Finland and the Great Patriotic War. He was a front-line correspondent, experienced the bitterness of terrible defeats and losses, was surrounded, faced with many people - sometimes for a long time, sometimes for a short, but forever remembered moment. Later he said about this in his "Book about the soldier", which became the poem "Vasily Terkin":
Let's remember those retreating with us,
Who fought for a year or an hour,
Fallen, missing,
Who have we met at least once,
Seeing off, meeting again,
For us to drink the water that was given,
Praying for us.
The fate of this book is remarkable and paradoxical! Written at a time when for the author, as well as for many contemporaries, Stalin was the greatest authority, the leader liked it. Evidence of this is the new Stalin Prize awarded to the poet, and the fact that, according to Khrushchev's recollections, “Stalin looked with emotion at the painting with Vasily Terkin” (painted by the artist Reshetnikov). He saw in the hero of the book a gallant, executive soldier, a reliable "screw" (in the well-known expression of the leader) of the army and even the state mechanism.
But here's what is significant. The very first chapters of "Vasily Terkin" appeared in print in the tragic months of 1942, almost simultaneously with the famous Stalinist order No. 227, and actually boldly contradicted it. Stalin branded the soldiers of the retreating army who allegedly "covered their banners with shame", accused them of "shameful behavior" and even of "crimes against the Motherland." Tvardovsky, on the other hand, was sick with his soul both for his main character - an ordinary "in a salted tunic", and for all our other "shaven children" who took the greatest torments in the war:
Our brother was walking, thin, hungry,
Lost touch and part,
I walked in port and platoon,
And a free company
And one, like a finger, sometimes.
He walked, gray, bearded,
And clinging to the threshold
I went into any house,
As if to blame for something
Before her. What could he do?
Just thinking about the book, Tvardovsky thought: “The beginning can be half-lipped. And there this guy will go harder and harder. " And so it turned out. What a "screw" there! What a narrow-minded merry fellow and joker there, as he was sometimes certified in criticism! In Terkin, the people's soul itself has healed, played with all colors - its breadth and scope, lyricism and intelligence, cunning and sensitivity to the grief of others.
Saltykov-Shchedrin, by the way, one of Tvardovsky's favorite writers, has excellent words about how important it is for an artist depicting types from the "popular milieu" to discern "the moral grace that they contain." This moral grace manifests itself in various ways in Terkin. It is also in the organic feeling of patriotism for him, in the readiness for a heroic deed without a phrase or posture ("You don't go to death so that someone can see. Well b. But no - well ..."). It is both in the sensitivity that he shows in the story with the "orphaned" accordion, and in his readiness to give up his glory to his namesake, and in the way Terkin tells "about the orphan soldier", and in his conversation-duel with Death:
- I'm not the worst and not the best,
That I will die in the war.
But at the end of it, listen
Will you give me a day off?
Will you give me that last day,
On a holiday of world glory,
Hear the victorious salute,
What will be heard over Moscow?
Will you give me a little that day
Walk among the living?
Will you give me one window
Knock on the edges of relatives
And, as they come out on the porch, -
Death, and Death, I'm still there
Will you let me say one word?
Half a word? ..
“What freedom, what wonderful prowess,” IA Bunin wrote after reading this book, “what accuracy, precision in everything and what an extraordinary folk soldier's language - not a bitch, not a hitch, not a single false, ready-made, that is literary -the vulgar word! "
If already in the "Land of Ant" such discerning connoisseurs as Boris Pasternak and Nikolai Aseev noted the high culture of poetry, then in "Vasily Terkin" the poet's skill reached its peak. Tvardovsky experienced, in his own words, "a feeling of complete freedom of handling verse and word in a naturally formed, unconstrained form of presentation."
Diverse in stanza, the intonationally flexible verse of the poem is remarkably consistent with its content, preserving the living naturalness of the characters' speech, their polyphony, all the richness of feelings and experiences of the hero and the author himself:
Early June noon
Was in the forest, and every leaf,
Full, joyful and youthful,
Was hot but fresh and clean.
Sheet to sheet, covered with sheet,
Harvested dense deciduous
Recalculated, washed
The first rain this summer.
And in the wilderness, native, branchy,
And in the silence of the daytime, forest
Young, thick, resinous,
The golden one held on to the heat.
And in a calm coniferous thicket
He got in the way of the ground
With an ant spirit of wine
And intoxicated, incline to sleep.
Each line here echoes the others. In the first stanza, the beginning of the lines ( noon - full), and to a certain extent the middle ( early - joyful). The second one also has its own instrumentation. In conclusion, a whole stream of consonances arises: wilderness - silence, native - daytime - forest, young - thick - golden, calm - coniferous, ant - wine.
In "Terkin" motifs that foreshadowed the next poem by Tvardovsky originate - about a short visit to the home of a retreating soldier, about an orphan soldier who found ashes on the site of his native village, about a "toiler-mother" returning from a field.
At the beginning of the poem "House by the Road" it is said that this theme, this song "lived, boiled, ached" in the author's soul throughout the war - about the fate of the peasant family, about the great human torments and the many-sidedness of the people's feat, whether it be the endurance of a soldier husband or the dedication of his wife and mother, who kept the children in the abyss of hardships and troubles.
The mental conversation of Anna Sivtsova in a foreign land with her tiny son belongs to the most heartfelt pages ever written by Tvardovsky, and can safely be ranked among the masterpieces of world poetry.
We will never know whether the house erected by Andrey Sivtsov on the site of the conflagration will wait for its mistress, whether it will be filled with children's voices. After all, the end of these stories was not the same! And this painful incompleteness of the fate of the heroes of the poem gave it a special drama.
The fact that "happiness is not in oblivion" of the tragedy experienced by the people is also indicated by Tvardovsky's lyrics of the war and peaceful years - "Two lines", "I was killed near Rzhev", "On the day the war ended", "I know no fault of mine ... ". In the poem "I was killed near Rzhev", the strict, reminiscent of the style of a wartime funeral, the thoroughness of the story about the death of a soldier (in "the fifth company, on the left with a cruel raid") is replaced by a strong emotional outburst:
I am where the roots are blind
Looking for food in the dark;
I am where with a cloud of dust
Rye walks on the hill;
I am where the cock's cry
At dawn in the dew;
I - where are your cars
The air is ripped on the highway ...
Repeating "singing" ("I am where ..."), internal consonances ( roots - feed; dawn - dew), sound writing (“your cars ... the highway” - like a rustle of tires) - all this gives the monologue of the killed warrior a rare expressiveness, melodiousness, and the hero's voice merges with the breath of the world, where the fallen soldier seemed to dissipate and dissolve.
In vain did the authorities try to tame and caress Tvardovsky, who became a popular favorite after "Terkin". He could no longer write in the same spirit about a village devastated not only by the war, but also by new cruel extortions. To continue the "Book about the Fighter", as many naive readers demanded, the conscience did not allow the hero to come up with a carefree life, especially since the author received completely different "tips":
Poet Tvardovsky, sorry,
Don't forget the backyards,
Take a quick look
Where Vasya Terkin dies,
Who fought, studied,
He built factories, sowed rye.
In jail, poor man, tired,
Died in which not for a penny ...
Please believe me, I believe you.
Farewell! There are no more words.
I measured terkin's gut
I am Terkin, even though I write
Did the author of these touching and inept verses live to see the poem "Terkin in the Next World", where Tvardovsky, in his own words, wanted to embody "the people's judgment over the bureaucracy and apparatus"? Criticism of the "other world", in which a very real party-state colossus was easily guessed, at times reached extreme acuteness in this book, published only ten years after its creation. So, having learned about the afterlife ration ("It is indicated on the menu, but not in nature"), Terkin innocently asks: "It seems, then, a workday?" The reader, in turn, could think about other things that existed only on paper, for example, about freedom of speech, press, assembly, "designated" in the then constitution.
In essence, this was already a trial of Stalinism, but it was not immediately and not easily given to Tvardovsky, who, until recently, in one of the chapters of the book Beyond the Distance, wrote about Stalin's death as "our great grief." And although later this chapter was radically altered by the author, traces of a certain inconsistency, indecision in judgments about the era lived through are tangible in this book, even in such chapters that played a role in public life as Childhood Friend (about a meeting with a man innocently convicted under Stalin ) and "So It Was", directly devoted to reflections on the leader.
Remarkable, however, are many of the lyrical fragments of the book - about the Volga, about the native Smolensk region, about the father's smithy and the sharp "literary conversation" that arose not only in the chapter of the same name. Separate passages of the poem in sincerity and strength compete with the best poems of the poet:
No, life has not cheated me,
I didn’t go around with my goodness.
In total, it was more than given to me
On the road - light and warmth.
And fairy tales in a quivering memory,
And the songs of my dear mother,
And old holidays with priests,
And new ones with different music.
... To live and be always with the people,
So that he knew everything that would become of him,
Not spared the thirtieth year.
And forty-first.
From the chapter "With myself"The last stage of Tvardovsky's life is closely connected with his activities as editor-in-chief of the Novy Mir magazine. Today, there is no shortage of accusations against the literature of that time, and Novy Mir is not sparing either, which, they say, was not bold and consistent enough in its criticism of the regime and could not abandon many erroneous ideas. But here we remember the words of Herzen about the attitude of the younger generation to their predecessors, "who were exhausted, trying to pull our barge from the shallow deep into the sand." efficient, less aware of where they are going; it gets angry with them and rejects them indiscriminately as backward ... I would really like to save the younger generation from historical ingratitude and even from a historical mistake. "
Back in Stalin's times, Tvardovsky, the editor, published in Novy Mir an acutely critical essay by V. Ovechkin, "District Weekdays," and during the thaw, A. Solzhenitsyn's story "One Day in Ivan Denisovich." Even in the "stagnant" years, the magazine continued to publish truthful works by F. Abramov, V. Bykov, B. Mozhaev, Y. Trifonov, Y. Dombrovsky and a number of other writers, which spoke of deep trouble in our social life. It is not without reason that a fair idea was expressed in the foreign, and later in the domestic press, that the magazine was turning into an unofficial opposition to the existing regime. It seems that in the history of Russian literature and social thought Tvardovsky's New World occupies no less place than Sovremennik and Otechestvennye zapiski.
Inseparable from this activity of Tvardovsky and his last poem "By the Right of Memory", in which he made a final calculation with Stalinism, "finishing off" it in his own soul, repentantly revising his experience and restoring the historical truth.
The central chapter of the poem - "The son does not answer for his father" breathes scorching autobiography. The well-known words of Stalin in the title at the time of their pronunciation looked for many, including for Tvardovsky, unexpected happiness, a kind of amnesty (although more than once the "kulak" origin was put "in line" to the poet - until the very last years of his life) ... Now Tvardovsky mercilessly exposes the immoral essence of this deceitful "aphorism" (deceitful - for, as the poem recalls, "... the title son of an enemy of the people even with them, it entered into rights "): compulsion to break natural human ties, justification of apostasy from them, from any moral obligations to loved ones. The poet writes bitterly and angrily about moral permissiveness encouraged "from above":
The task is clear, the matter is sacred, -
With that - to the highest goal - straight ahead.
Betray your brother on the way
And a best friend secretly.
And the soul with human feelings
Do not burden yourself by sparing yourself.
And bear witness in the name
And commit atrocities in the name of the leader.
Throughout his poem, especially the final chapter "On Memory", Tvardovsky rebelled against attempts to hide, whitewash, embellish the tragic experience of the past decades - to "drown living pain into oblivion":
But all that was not forgotten
Not sewn-covered in the world.
One lie is at a loss for us,
And only the truth to the court!
It is not his fault that he was not heard and that the lines of the poem: "He who jealously hides the past is unlikely to be in harmony with the future," turned out to be a prophecy.
No matter how bitter and difficult the circumstances of the last months of Tvardovsky's life were (leaving the "New World", the ban on the publication of the poem "By the Right of Memory", a new disgrace on "Terkin in the Next World", which was excluded from the poet's collections and was not mentioned in print) , he passed away with the consciousness that "honestly ... he was pulling his cart."
His later lyrics are imbued with the idea of the artist's duty to be faithful to the truth, to fearlessly follow the chosen path - and "not acting in anything from his path, not retreating - to be himself."
It's all in one single covenant:
What I say, melting until the time,
I know this better than anyone else in the world -
Alive and dead - only I know.
Say that word to no one else
I would never never could
Trust it.
For his own responsibility,
I am concerned about one thing during my life:
That I know better than anyone else in the world
I want to say. And the way I want.
There is in this lyricism of Tvardovsky a victorious and, as the future tense has proved, a fully justified confidence that “everything will pass, but the truth will remain,” the confidence he once expressed with almost wise cunning that “the time soon for reprisals ... what, you think! - with a rhyme ":
It really is it this way and that
Strives to betray oblivion
And to announce that in the newspapers
And on the radio ...
Look, look,
For a short period of time -
And time from the tongue
Suddenly breaks down inadvertently
From the same rhyme -
“I will not speak out with Terkin alone,” wrote Tvardovsky during the war. However, he did not "speak out", according to his own feeling, even with all his poetry. “With these iambs and chorea,” says the article “How Vasily Terkin was written” (1951), “remained somewhere in vain, existed only for me - and a kind of lively manner of speech of the blacksmith Pulkin (from the poem of the same name. - A. Turkov) or pilot Trusov, and jokes, and habits, and the grip of other heroes in nature. "
Alexander Trifonovich more than once jokingly assured that he was, in essence, a prose writer, and from an early age tried himself in essays.
And just as it was with "Terkin", the desire to convey what "was left in vain", to show all the "brew" of life, gave rise to in his prose "a book without a beginning, without an end", without a special plot, however, the truth not to the detriment - "Motherland and Foreign Land".
It consists not only of completely finished essays and stories, but also of often small, but very remarkable entries "also, as it is said in the" Book about the soldier "," entered into his notebook the lines that lived randomly "!
Not only that, at times, there were “grains” of plot lines: “Terkin” and “House by the Road” (compare, for example, the story of the new Khudoleev's hut in the essay “In the Native Places” with the chapter on Andrei Sintsov's return home). The poet's prose is precious in itself.
Almost in each of the most laconic entries, the depth and acuteness of the perception of life in any of its manifestations, characteristic of the author, appeared. Sometimes a face is snatched away, flashed literally for a moment, and such a face that you will not forget.
In the battle for the village in the poet's native Smolensk region, "about a dozen of our soldiers fought off counterattacks, many were already wounded ... women and children roar aloud, saying goodbye to life." And now "a young lieutenant, covered in sweat, soot and blood, without a cap, kept repeating with the courtesy of the person who is responsible for putting things in order:" Wait a minute, mother, now we will release, one minute ... "
The partisan, nicknamed Kostya, has six exploded enemy echelons on her account, and as a reward for her exploits ... a kiss from an unknown commander, tired and sleepy (a sweetly tormenting girl's memory ...).
The people freed from German bondage and returning home, according to the author's sorrowful words, wander to the burnt pipes, to the ashes, to the unhealed grief, which many of them still do not fully imagine what it will be waiting for them there. And how close it is to the chapter "About the Orphan Soldier" and to "The House by the Road" again!
But even an old man who survived the war in his native village “was sitting near a hut, cut from logs, on which the trench clay was still visible (how much work did this“ construction ”cost him ?!). And for all the astonishing despondency in the eccentric charm of this "world grandfather" (as a passing chauffeur christened him), to what extent he is deprived, no matter what you look: "He was wearing a soldier's quilted jacket and trousers made of camouflage material with green and yellow stains. He sucked on a pipe, the cup of which was a slice of a cartridge from a large-caliber machine gun. "
It is infinitely a pity that Alexander Trifonovich was not destined to carry out his new "prosaic" plans. But besides "Pan" there were others extremely interesting in the workbook; “… I will make a trip around the world on water,” says the 1966 workbook, “and I will write everything down in Mann's way with all sorts of distractions,” and so on.
That is, in the spirit of the beloved German writer Thomas Mann, numerous extracts from whose books and whose name is repeatedly found in these notebooks.
"Half of Russia looked into it ..." Tvardovsky once said about the Volga, whose waves seem to carry "the edges of countless reflections."
And aren't these words true in relation to his own work, which has captured so many faces, events and destinies?
Andrey Turkov
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The given introductory fragment of the book Vasily Terkin. Poems. Poems (A.T. Tvardovsky) provided by our book partner -
Alexander Tvardovsky
"Vasily Turkin"(other name - "The book about the fighter") Is a poem by Alexander Tvardovsky, one of the main works in the poet's work, which received national recognition. The poem is dedicated to a fictional hero - Vasily Turkin, a soldier of the Great Patriotic War.
Illustration by Orest Vereisky to the poem
Tvardovsky began work on the poem and the image of the protagonist in 1939-1940, when he was a war correspondent for the newspaper of the Leningrad military district "On guard of the Motherland" during the Finnish military campaign. The name of the hero and his image were born as the fruit of the joint work of the members of the editorial board of the newspaper: artists Briskin and Fomichev, and poets, including N. Shcherbakov, N. Tikhonov, Ts. Solodar and S. Marshak. The resulting image of a simple Russian guy - strong and good-natured, Tvardovsky considered successful. Turkin became the satirical hero of small feuilleton poems written for the newspaper. In 1940, the collective issued a brochure "Vasya Tyorkin at the Front", which was often given to soldiers as a kind of reward.
The Red Army soldier Tyorkin already then began to enjoy a certain popularity among the readers of the district newspaper, and Tvardovsky decided that the topic was promising and needed to be developed within the framework of a large-scale work.
On June 22, 1941, Tvardovsky curtailed his peaceful literary activity and left for the front the next day. He becomes a war correspondent for the South-West, and then the 3rd Belorussian Front. In 1941-1942, together with the editorial board, Tvardovsky finds himself in the hottest spots of the war. He retreats, finds himself surrounded and leaves it.
In the spring of 1942, Tvardovsky returned to Moscow. Gathering the scattered notes and sketches, he sits down again to work on the poem. "War is serious, and poetry must be serious"- he writes in his diary. On September 4, 1942, the publication of the first chapters of the poem (the introductory "From the Author" and "At the Halt") began in the newspaper of the Western Front "Krasnoarmeyskaya Pravda".
The poem gains fame, it is reprinted by the central publications Pravda, Izvestia, Znamya. Excerpts from the poem are read on the radio by Orlov and Levitan. At the same time, famous illustrations created by the artist Orest Vereisky began to appear. Tvardovsky himself reads his work, meets with soldiers, visits hospitals and work collectives with creative evenings.
The work was a great success with readers. When Tvardovsky wanted to finish the poem in 1943, he received many letters in which readers demanded to continue. In 1942-1943, the poet went through a severe creative crisis. In the army and in the civilian readership, The Book about the Fighter was received with a bang, but the party leadership criticized it for its pessimism and lack of mention of the party's leading role. Secretary of the Union of Writers of the USSR Alexander Fadeev admitted: "The poem answers his heart", but "... one must follow not the impulses of the heart, but the party guidelines"... Nevertheless, Tvardovsky continues to work, very reluctantly agreeing to censorship edits and cuts of the text. As a result, the poem was completed in 1945 with the end of the war. The last chapter ("In the Bath") was completed in March 1945. Even before the end of work on the work, Tvardovsky was awarded the Stalin Prize.
Finishing work on the poem, Tvardovsky, back in 1944, simultaneously begins the next poem, "Tyorkin in the Next World." Initially, he planned to write it as the last chapter of the poem, but the idea grew into an independent work, which also included some uncensored excerpts from Vasily Tyorkin. "Turkin in the Next World" was prepared for publication in the mid-1950s and became another program work of Tvardovsky - a bright anti-Stalinist pamphlet. On July 23, 1954, the secretariat of the Central Committee, chaired by NS Khrushchev, adopted a resolution condemning Tvardovsky for the poem "Tyorkin in the Next World" prepared for publication. During the campaign to "expose Stalin", on August 17, 1963, the poem was first published in the newspaper Izvestia. In wartime, the poem (more precisely, its excerpts) was memorized, passed to each other clippings from newspapers, considering its protagonist a role model.
Monument to Tvardovsky and Vasily Turkin in Smolensk
Tvardovsky, who passed the front himself, absorbed sharp and accurate soldier's observations, phrases and sayings into the language of the poem. Phrases from the poem became winged and entered into oral speech.
- No, guys, I'm not proud, I agree to a medal.
- The battle is not for the sake of glory, for the sake of life on earth.
- Cities are surrendered by soldiers, generals are taking them.
- Do not look at what is on your chest, but look at what is ahead.
Solzhenitsyn spoke highly of Tvardovsky's work. Boris Pasternak considered "Tyorkin" the highest achievement of literature about the war, which had a great influence on his work. Ivan Bunin spoke about the poem this way:
This is a truly rare book: what freedom, what wonderful prowess, what accuracy, precision in everything and what an extraordinary folk soldier's language - not a hitch, not a hitch, not a single false, ready-made, that is, literary vulgar word!
A summary of the poem "Vasily Turkin" by Tvardovsky A.T. in parts
In a one minute war
Do not live without a joke,
The jokes of the most unwise ...
... Do not live Without the truth of existence,
Truth beating straight into the soul.
On a halt
At a halt, Tyorkin explains to his new comrades what “sabantuy” is: a test of will and courage. It is good if a person manages to behave with dignity in any situation, even if "a rod of thousands of German tanks" is on him. Tyorkin's stories are a success. The author asks about the origin of his hero. Such as Turkin, "in every company there is always, and in every platoon." Turkin was wounded. Talking about himself, he speaks on behalf of his regiment: "I was partially scattered, and partially destroyed." Tyorkin walked "hundreds of miles of native land", retreating with units of the Soviet army, fought as a hero, but for some reason did not receive a medal. However, Turkin is not discouraged:
Don't look at what's on your chest
And look what lies ahead! ..
Before the fight
The army is retreating. The soldiers feel guilty before the Soviet people, who, with their departure, will fall into the occupation. Tyorkin, "as a more ideological", acts as a political instructor:
Let us be alive - we will not die.
The time will come, we will return back,
What we gave - we will return everything.
The commander is sad: his native village is on the way. Turkin decides to go there. The commander's wife places the fighters in the hut, treats everyone, and takes care of the house. Children rejoice at their father, at the first moment it seems to them that he came home after working in the field. But the children already understand that their father will leave, and tomorrow, perhaps, the Germans will enter their hut. The commander himself does not sleep at night, chopping wood, trying to help his mistress with something. The crying of children at dawn, when the commander and his soldiers leave the house, still sounds in Tyorkin's ears. Turkin dreams of entering this hospitable house, when the army will liberate its land, "to bow to a kind, simple woman."
Crossing
While crossing the river, the Germans begin shelling. Many fighters are drowning. Only the first platoon (and with him Turkin) is transported to the other side. By nightfall, the surviving fighters no longer hope to see their comrades from the first platoon alive, believing that all of them were shot by the Germans when they disembarked. There is no connection with them. However, in the middle of the night, Turkin swims across the river in the opposite direction (in icy water) and reports to the colonel that the platoon is intact, awaits further orders, and asks to support the attack with artillery fire. Tyorkin promises to provide a ferry for the rest of his comrades. Turkin warms up with alcohol, taking it inside. The crossing is resumed at night.
The fight is holy and right.
Mortal combat is not for the glory
For life on earth.
About war
The year has struck, the turn has come,
Today we are in charge
For Russia, for the people
And for everything in the world.
From Ivan to Thomas,
Dead eh, alive
All of us together are us
That people, Russia.
Turkin is wounded
Turkin in a rifle company. He pulls on the communication wire. Enemy artillery fires at the chain. One shell falls near Terkin, but does not explode. Everyone is scared, but Turkin, who despises danger, "turning to that shell, relieved a little need." Turkin notices the dugout and, thinking that there are Germans inside, decides to occupy their firing point. Ho the dugout is empty. Tyorkin himself sets up an ambush there. The Germans are getting closer. Turkin waits, a German officer rushes at him, wounds him in the shoulder. Terkin stabs the German with a bayonet. A day later, the wounded were picked up by tankmen, saving his life. In the author's opinion, nowhere is there "the friendship of that saint and purer that happens in war."
About the award
Turkin was awarded an order for his injury, but he "agreed to a medal." The reward will come in handy when he returns as a liberator to his “native land of Smolensk”, goes to a dance in the evening, and the girl he loves will “wait for the word, for the glance” of the hero.
Harmonic
Tyorkin, discharged from the hospital, walks along the front road, catching up with his unit. A ride picks him up. There is a column ahead. The driver stops the car (he is obliged to let the column pass), falls asleep. Turkin regrets that there is no accordion, to pass the time. Suddenly, one tanker invites him to play the accordion of their deceased commander. Tyorkin plays "the side of the native Smolensk sad memorable tune", and then the song "Three Tankers". Everyone seems to be getting warmer, the chauffeur comes running and starts dancing. The tankers look closely at the accordion player, recognize the wounded man who was saved from death in the dugout. They give the accordion to the deceased comrade Terkin, realizing that now is not the time to lament the dead and wonder who they themselves will live to see victory and return home. It is necessary to hold on "from the spot - into the water and into the fire."
Two soldiers
Tyorkin enters the same hut where an old man and an old woman live. The old man is himself a soldier in the past. Tyorkin repairs a saw and a wall clock to his grandfather. The old woman reluctantly takes out the last bacon from the bins, fries eggs for the men. The old man has a conversation with Terkin, asks if ours will be able to beat the Germans. At the end of the meal, Turkin, bowing as usual to the owners of the house, calmly promises: "We will beat you, father!"
About loss
Tyorkin's comrade lost his pouch and was very upset. After all, he had already had to lose his family, yard and hut, "native land, everything in the world and a tobacco pouch." Turkin says that these are all frivolous losses. The comrade reproaches Tyorkin that it is easy for him to say: he is single, he has nobody and nothing. Turkin gives him his pouch and explains:
Losing a family is not a shame -
It was not your fault.
Losing a head off is a shame
Well, that's what war is for ...
Ho Russia, old mother,
We cannot lose in any way.
Duel
Terkin fights with the German in brutal hand-to-hand combat. The German is stronger because he is better fed. Ho Turkin is not discouraged and does not give up. He does not consider a German a man, but calls him a scoundrel. The German begins to fight with a helmet, and then Tyorkin hits him with an unloaded grenade, stuns him, ties him up and takes him to the headquarters for interrogation. Tyorkin is very proud of himself, he is pleased to walk on Soviet soil, "by the way" carry a German machine gun behind his shoulders, adjust the "tongue" and know that everyone he meets is "cordially glad" that Turkin returned alive from intelligence.
The most important thing for a soldier is to return home alive from the war. The author knows that "a peace fairy tale is a mile to the soul of a soldier in war." Ho himself only writes about the war:
I will only say that we would
Cope with the war
Move aside this dam
For the border of the native land.
And as long as the edge is vast
That native land is in captivity,
I am a lover of a peaceful life -
In war I sing war.
"Who shot?"
An enemy plane is circling over Terkin and his comrades. Death is just around the corner. The author ponders what time of year it is easier to die in a war, but comes to the conclusion that no time of the year is suitable for this.
No, comrade, evil and proud,
As the law tells the fighter
Meet death face to face
And at least spit in her face
If it all came to an end ...
Turkin "kicks the plane from his knee with a rifle" and knocks him out. The general awards Turkin with the order. Tyorkin encourages his comrades, reminds that “this is not the last plane of the German,” that is, anyone has the right to follow his example.
About the hero
Tyorkin tells how he was lying in the hospital and a soldier from Tambov, who was awarded the order, hinted to him that in the Smolensk side there could be no brave people like him. Now Turkin can rightfully claim that heroes will be born in his beloved Smolensk region. He does not boast of his native land, he simply loves his homeland more than anything else and wants to defend its prestige.
General
There are battles on the Volga. Tyorkin is on the defensive, he sleeps on the bank of the river. Half asleep, he hears a song about a rivulet, which alone can, crawling under a barbed German wire, run to his native village, convey the words of love from a soldier son to his mother. The general, who is “court, father, head, law” for a soldier in war, allows Turkin to go home for a week as a reward. But there are enemies in the home side, and Tyorkin is not a river to sneak past the German sentries unnoticed. The general promises to postpone Tyorkin's vacation until the time when the army will liberate Smolensk: "We are on the way with you." At parting, the general tightly shakes Turkin's hand, looks into his eyes, hugs him - behaves as he would with his son.
About myself
The author dreams of the days when the Russian people will again become masters on their land, so that "not furtively, not with a look around in their native forests." He vows, turning to his homeland, to return and liberate it, to erase the ridiculous border between the occupied territory and Soviet land.
I tremble with sharp pain,
Bitter and holy malice.
Mother, father, sisters
Beyond that line ...
What I praised with all my heart
And he loved - beyond that line.
I am responsible for everything ...
Swamp fight
For the third day, the soldiers of the Tyorkin regiment are fighting in a swamp near the unknown settlement of Borki. It is raining, there is no food or smoke, many are coughing. Ho Turkin is not discouraged. In his opinion, it can be a hundred times worse. Turkin even jokes that they are now at the resort:
You - in the rear eh, on the flank, -
You don't know how strong you are, -
Armor-piercing, cannons, tanks.
You, brother, are a battalion.
Regiment. Division. Do you want -
Front. Russia! Finally,
I'll tell you in short
And more understandably: you are a fighter.
You are in the ranks, please learn ...
Turkin recalls how hard it was for them a year ago, when units of the Soviet army were incessantly retreating. Now the Germans are retreating, they began to hum Russian songs, although "this song of last year's now the German is not a singer." The author reflects on the fact that after the war all the fallen will be equal - both those who fell for the “proud stronghold of the Volga” (Stalingrad), and those who gave their lives “for the now forgotten settlement of Borki”. Russia "will give honor to all in full."
About love
Each soldier is escorted to war by a woman. The author regrets that "of all those women, as always, their own mother is remembered less." The soldier knows that "the love of a wife, in war, is stronger than war and, perhaps, death." A letter from home, full of female love and support, without complaints, can work wonders with a soldier. Love is stronger than war, it can survive any period of time, withstand any trials.
The author appeals to the wives of the soldiers and encourages them to write to their husbands more often at the front ("to a general, a soldier, this is as a reward"). To his great regret, there is no one to write to Vasily Turkin, and all because the girls "love our pilots, horsemen are held in high esteem." The infantry, on the other hand, does not receive attention, which is wrong.
Turkin's rest
For a soldier, paradise is where you can sleep off. This is a normal, peaceful house, where the bedroom is to sleep "in the warmth of the bed ... in the same underwear as it should be in paradise", and the dining room is to eat four times a day - but only from the table, not from the knee, with plates, not from the pot, cut the bread with a knife, not a bayonet. In paradise, you don't need to hide a spoon behind the bootleg, and you don't need to put your rifle at your feet. Having found himself in such a paradise (having left the front line), Turkin cannot fall asleep until he realizes that for this he needs to put on a hat (out of habit at the front). But the war is not over yet, which means that Turkin has no time to rest, and he returns to the front line. Tyorkin, like his comrades, sleeps again wherever he has to, "without a feather bed, without a pillow, snuggling closer to each other," and in the morning he goes on the attack.
On the offensive
The soldiers got used to the fact that they were on the defensive all the time that they adapted to organize both the bathhouse and read "Tyorkin" at their leisure. But now the regiment goes on the offensive, takes the village. Young fighters, who are going into battle for the first time, “at this hour, the most precious thing is to know one thing that Tyorkin is here”. The lieutenant dies heroically, and Turkin realizes that it is his turn to lead the soldiers forward. Turkin is seriously wounded.
Death and Warrior
Turkin lies in the snow, bleeding. Death approaches him, persuades him to surrender, to agree to die.
Turkin is very bad, but he decides to fight death. Death predicts that it makes no sense for Turkin to survive: the war will go on for a long time. Turkin does not argue, but he is ready to fight. Death explains that he has nowhere to return after the war: his house is destroyed. Ho Tyorkin is not discouraged: he is a worker, he will rebuild everything. Death says that now he will become a useless cripple. "And with Death Man began to argue over the strength." Tyorkin almost agrees to die, only asks death to let him live for a day on Victory Day. Death refuses, and then Turkin chases her away. Fighters from the funeral team are walking across the field, they pick up Tyorkin and take him to the infirmary. The fighters put on mittens on Turkin to warm his numb hands. Death lags behind Turkin. She is shocked by the mutual assistance of the living, she did not manage to "get along" with the soldier while he was alone.
Turkin writes
Tyorkin writes to his fellow soldiers that he dreams of only one thing: after the hospital, return to his native part. He would rather "stomp through his Smolensk region to the border." Turkin “senses” that great battles, victorious battles are just around the corner. By these days he hopes to walk "without sticks" and return to the ranks, and if he has to meet his hour of death, then among his comrades.
Turkin - Turkin
At a halt, Tyorkin meets his namesake Ivan Turkin, also an unusually popular joker, hero and accordion player. While the Turkins are figuring out which of them is real, who is fake, the foreman announces that now "according to the charter, each company will be assigned its own Turkin."
Tyorkin is known in any regiment. It was not heard about him for a long time and there was a rumor that Tyorkin had died. Many do not believe: "Turkin is not subject to death, if the time has not expired for the war." But the author knows for sure: Turkin is alive, he still does not lose heart and urges others not to lose heart. He's just fighting in the west now.
Vasily has gone far,
Vasya Terkin, your soldier.
Into the battle, forward, into the pitch fire
He walks, holy and sinful,
Russian miracle man.
Grandfather and woman
Three years of war have passed. Vasily Tyorkin's regiment liberates the village in which at the beginning of the war Tyorkin repaired watches for old people. The grandfather and the woman are hiding from the shells in the pit. The soldier grandfather decides to defend his wife and himself, so that "death in captivity does not suffer," from the hand of a German, he takes an ax in his hands. But Russian soldiers are approaching the pit. Residents are happy, grandfather recognizes one of the scouts as Tyorkin. The old woman begins to feed Tyorkin lard, which "is not there, but still is." The watch was stolen by a German ("after all, non-ferrous metal"). Turkin promises to bring the old people a new watch from Berlin.
On the Dnieper
The units of the Soviet army are getting closer to the native land of Tyorkin, the soldiers are increasingly turning to their native side:
I bent such a hook,
I went so far
And I've seen such agony
And I knew such a sadness! ..
I'm coming to you from the east
I am the same, not different.
Take a look, take a deep breath
Meet me again.
Mother earth is my dear,
For a happy day
Forgive me for what - I don't know
Just forgive me! ..
The Russians are crossing the Dnieper ("I swam, because the heat came"). The Germans are more and more willing to surrender. Tyorkin is already a different person, experienced, calm, who has lost a lot and many people.
About an orphan soldier
Increasingly, soldiers, as if they were something real, talk about the imminent capture of Berlin. Tyorkin's popularity seems to be waning: he was honored when the army was retreating, because he could cheer people up, and now this role belongs to the generals: "the cities are surrendered by the soldiers, the generals are taking them."
European capitals happily greet the liberators, but the common soldier is most dear to his native village. One of the author's fellow countrymen was unlucky: his house was burned down, his family was killed, and “good people” announced to him that he was now an orphan. The soldier silently returns to the unit, eats cold soup and cries - because now there is no one to cry about him. The author calls not to forgive these soldiers' tears to the Nazis, to remember the orphan soldier on the bright day of victory, to avenge his grief.
On the road to Berlin
Parts of the Soviet army liberate Europe. The soldiers do not like "the boring foreign climate, the foreign red-brick land." They and Russia are now separated by "three languages other than ours." Once again, the soldiers dream of returning to their homeland, and they come across former prisoners of German camps who have been taken out of their countries.
And on the Russian soldier
Brother is French, brother of British,
Brother Pole and everything
With friendship as if to blame
But they look heartily.
Suddenly, the soldiers meet a simple Russian woman "the mother of holy eternal power, of unknown mothers who are unbearable in work and in any misfortune." The soldiers surround the woman with care, give her a horse, a cow, a feather bed, dishes, even a wall clock and a bicycle. Tyorkin in pursuit advises the woman, if they detain her and try to take away the good, to say that Vasily Tyorkin provided her with all this.
In the bath
On the outskirts of the war -
Deep in Germany -
Bath! What is Sanduny
With the rest of the baths!
Father's house in a foreign land ...
A real Russian bath gives the soldiers a lot of pleasure, it's a pity that the water for washing has to be taken from foreign rivers. However, the author believes that it is much worse to wash in a bathhouse somewhere in the suburbs during the war. In the bathhouse, people are naked, and you can immediately see who has what mark remains on the body from the war - "a star is imprinted on the living, on white ... on the back of the shoulder blade." And today's bathhouse for soldiers is famous for the fact that “for the first time in the whole war - there is no German in front of you. In honor of the victory, firefights will strike after Moscow. "
The soldiers are getting dressed after the bath. Now one, then the other on the tunic - a whole iconostasis of the orders. The soldiers joke that this is not all, the rest are where "the German holds his last line today."
Turkin, Turkin, in fact,
The hour has come, the end of the war.
And as if out of date
Immediately, you and I are both -
the author addresses his hero. Summing up his work, the author claims that "it happened, he lied for a laugh, he never lied for a lie." The author has no right to forget the one to whom he owes his glory, that is, Tyorkin, the Russian soldier.
These lines and pages -
Days and miles are a special account.
How many of them are there in the world,
What have you read, poet,
Like this poor book
Many, many, many years.
Throughout the war, the author dreamed that his work would make the soldiers easier and warmer. He wants that after the war, over a glass of beer, an important general or a private in the reserve, they would continue to remember Tyorkin. The reader's highest praise for the author would be the words: "Here are the verses, but everything is clear, everything is in Russian." The author considers the "book about the fighter" to be a matter of life. He dedicated "his beloved work to the fallen to the sacred memory, to all friends of the war period, to all hearts whose judgment is dear."
Alexander Tvardovsky
Vasily Turkin
In the war, in the dust of the camp, In the summer heat and in the cold, Better there is no simple, natural - From a well, from a pond, From a water pipe, From a hoof track, From a river, whatever, From a stream, from under the ice, - Better there is no cold water, Only water was used - water. In a war, in a harsh everyday life, In a difficult combat life, In the snow, under a coniferous roof, In a field parking lot, - There is no better simple, healthy, Good front-line food. It is only important that the cook There would be a cook - a guy of his own; To be numbered not without reason, So that sometimes I did not sleep at night, - If only she would be with fat Yes, she would be with fervor, with heat - Pick up, hotter; To go into any fight, Feeling strength in the shoulders, Feeling cheerfulness. However, the point is not only in cabbage soup. You can live without food for a day, You can do more, but sometimes In a war one minute Do not live without a joke, The most unwise jokes. Not to live, as without a makhorka, From bombing to another Without a good saying Or a saying what, - Without you, Vasily Tyorkin, Vasya Tyorkin is my hero, And more than anything else I can't live for sure - Without what? Without the truth that exists, the Truth, beating directly into the soul, Yes, it would have been thicker, No matter how bitter it was. What else? .. And that's all, perhaps. In a word, a book about a fighter Without a beginning, without an end. Why is it so - without a beginning? Because the time is not enough To start it all over again. Why endlessly? I just feel sorry for the fellow. From the first days of the bitter year, In the difficult hour of the native land Not joking, Vasily Tyorkin, We made friends with you, I have no right to forget that, What is yours to glory, What and where you helped me. Business time, hour of fun, Dorog Turkin in the war. How can I suddenly leave you? The old friendship is correct. In a word, a book from the middle And let's start. And there it will go. 
On a halt
- Smart, to be sure, There was the same old man, That invented soup to cook On wheels straight. Soup first. Secondly, Kashu is normally strong. No, he was an old man. A sensitive old man - that's for sure. Hey, throw another spoon like this, I am the second, brother, the war I am fighting forever. Rate, add a little. The cook looked askance: "Wow eater - this guy is new." He puts an extra spoon, He says not angrily: - You should, you know, in the Navy With your appetite. He: - Thank you. I have never been to the navy. I'd rather like you as a chef in the infantry. - And, sitting under a pine tree, he eats Porridge, stooping. "Mine?" - fighters among themselves, - "Own!" - exchanged glances. And already, having warmed up, the tired regiment was fast asleep. In the first platoon, sleep was gone, Contrary to the charter. Leaning against the trunk of a pine tree, Not sparing the makhorka, In the war about the war, Tyorkin conducted the conversation. - You guys, start from the middle. And I will say: I am not the first boots I wear here without mending. Now you have arrived at the place, Guns in hand - and fight. And how many of you know What is Sabantuy? - Is Sabantuy some kind of holiday? Or what is there - sabantuy? - Sabantuy is different, But if you don't know, don't interpret, Here, under the first bombing, You will lie down from the hunt to lie down, Remain alive - do not grieve: This is a small Sabantuy. Catch your breath, eat tightly, Light up and don't blow your mustache. Worse, brother, like a mortar. Suddenly, a sabantuy begins. He will penetrate you deeper, - kiss the Earth-mother. But keep in mind, my dear, This is an average Sabantuy. Sabantuy - you science, The enemy is fierce - fierce himself. But a completely different thing. This is the main Sabantuy. The guy fell silent for a minute, To clear the mouthpiece, As if gradually winked at someone: hold on, my friend ... - Here you came out early, Looked - in your sweat and trembling; A rod of a thousand German tanks ... - A thousand tanks? Well, brother, you're lying. - Why should I lie, buddy? Judge - what is the calculation? - But why immediately - a thousand? - Good. Let it be five hundred, - Well, five hundred. Honestly, do not frighten, like old women. - Okay. That there are three hundred, two hundred - Meet one at least ... - Well, the slogan in the newspaper is accurate: Don't run into the bushes and into the bread. Tank - it looks very formidable, But in fact it is deaf and blind. “That’s blind.” You lie in a ditch, And your heart is melting: Suddenly, like blindly, he will crush you, - After all, he does not see a damn thing. I agree to repeat again: What you do not know - do not interpret. Sabantuy - just one word - Sabantuy! .. But sabantuy Can hit in the head, Or simply, in the head. Here we had one guy ... Give me some tobacco. Balaguru look in the mouth, the Word is caught eagerly. It's good when someone lies. Fun and smooth. Aside from the forest, deaf, In rough weather, Well, as there is such a Guy on a hike. And hesitantly asked him: - Well, for the night Tell me something else, Vasily Ivanovich ... The night is deaf, the land of cheese. A little fire smokes. - No, guys, it's time to sleep, Start creeping. Face down to the sleeve, On a warm hillock Between the comrades of the fighters Vasily Tyorkin lay down. The greatcoat was heavy, wet, The rain worked kindly. The roof is the sky, the hut is the spruce, The roots are shaking under the ribs. But it is not visible that he was depressed by this, So that he would not sleep in a dream Somewhere in the world. So he pulled up the floors, Covering his back, He remembered Someone's mother-in-law, Stove and feather bed. And nestled to the ground damp, Overcome with languor, And he lies, my hero, Sleeps like at home. Asleep - at least hungry, at least full, At least one, at least in a heap. Sleep for the previous lack of sleep, Sleep in reserve taught. And the hero barely dreams of a heavy dream Every night: As he retreated from the western border to the east; As he passed, Vasya Terkin, From the stock of a private, In a salted gymnast Hundreds of miles of native land. How big the land is, the Greatest land. And it would be someone else's, Someone's, or else - her own. The hero sleeps, snores - period. Takes everything as it is. Well, my own - so that's for sure. Well, war - so I'm here. Asleep, forgetting about the difficult summer. Sleep, care, do not rebel. Maybe tomorrow at dawn there will be a new Sabantuy. Sleep fighters, as a dream caught, Under a pine tree? kat, Sentinels at the posts Wet lonely. Zgi is not visible. Night is around. And the fighter will feel sad. Just remember something suddenly, Remember, grin. And as if the dream had disappeared, Laughter wavered a yawn. - It's good that he got into our company, Turkin. * * * Turkin - who is he? Let's face it: He's just a guy by himself.
